Code of Arhra
by BanterHorse
Summary: When a high ranking Trueborn of a noble kabal falls from the grace of his underlings, his fate is all but certain. Naerion, now hunted by his own kabal and possibly every cutthroat in the city, must turn to desperate measures if he wants to survive, and only one group in the entire city can shelter him. That is if he can survive their trials long enough to rise again as an Incubus.
1. Downfall

"_Is an eldar not entitled to the sweat of his brow? 'No!' says the simpletons in the Exodite Worlds, 'it belongs to the world spirit.' 'No!' says She Who Thirsts, 'it belongs to Me.' 'No!' says the farseer in the craftworld, 'it belongs to everyone.' I rejected those answers; instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Commorragh. A city where the artist would not fear the censor; where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality; where the great would not be constrained by the small! And with the sweat of your brow, Commorragh can be your city as well." _-Asdrubael Vect, brought to you by the Commorrite tourism association.

* * *

Commorragh. Dark, delicious, eternal Commorragh. A place of infinite possibility and irony, where suffering and agony are the daily fair of ageless creatures of unspeakable wickedness. The city is a machine fueled by the bodies of innocents doomed to endure the depravations of it's citizens in their quest to cheat an ancient evil of their ancestors' creation. A curse that lays waste to their bodies and spirits that can only be mended by the emotional torment of lesser creatures.

It is a city for the predator, the revolutionary, the leader, and the enslaved. Intrigue runs from it's sewers to it's spires, from the endless political dances of the archons and trueborn to the murderous sell-steel henchmen that fight in their name in the district tiers below. Alliances were forged and broken on a monthly basis, all who played the game knew that the stakes were total, and the price for stumbling could very well mean a long awaited appointment with She Who Thirsts.

This was a fact prevalent on the mind of a particular trueborn. Naerion Ynneath, 492nd pureblood descendant of the Ynneath dynasty, firstborn son of Archon Kuhral Ynneath of the Invisible Hand Kabal was currently hiding in an abandoned dwelling in Lower Commorragh, seeking to evade those he once wielded great authority over. Kabalite warriors and agents of the Invisible Hand were even now searching for him, either mounted in Raiders gliding over the districts, or hiding among the plebeians just waiting to catch sight of him.

Why may you ask was this highborn warrior hiding in the gutters of the lower tiers rubbing shoulders with lowborn cutthroats and slavish vermin? Truthfully Naerion had underestimated the competition, or rather an individual he had never considered to be part of the game in the first instance. Namely his deranged half-sister Anaeil Ynneath, a woman who to him had been nothing more than an immature and incompetent sybarite, a family member that could be brushed aside as an afterthought. That is until she killed their father, and did so in a way that directly incriminated him. While normally this would be cause for congratulation among his peers, seeing as he was next in line for succession, but his sister had been busy. She must have been making deals and forging pacts for several decades in total secrecy, playing on the fact that his attention had been focused on his more visible rivals. Rather than he claiming what was rightfully his, Anaeil called him out on his 'crime' and to his horror the Kabal sided with her. Many of his allies turned on him on the spot once they saw where the wind was blowing, the rest were killed or forced into hiding like he was now.

The Invisible Hand had a new Archon now, and she had little patience for rival siblings, she would settle for nothing less than his head on her desk. Despite himself, Naerion could not help but admire his half-sister's cunning and subterfuge, she played the game like a true master. And like him knew well to dispatch loose ends. That did not mean he would take this lying down, he fully intended to make Anaeil regret him surviving her treachery. Be it a century or a millennium he would not rest until he had his vengeance, and inflicted upon her a punishment of such screaming retribution, it would be celebrated in song for ages to come.

But for now, he would have to settle for his current predicament. Having abandoned his masterfully crafted suit of armor in favor of an old cloak and facemask, he had evaded the Kabalites and taken refuge in this rotten abode, it's former occupant lay in the corner upon a pool of blood, a crescent moon of crimson drawn into his neck.

Lower Commorragh was an overbuilt miasma of impossible architecture, spacial-anomalies, and gutted ruins shrouded in the darkness of the spires and bridges that branched out so thickly overhead, no light ever reached the streets below. The minds of lesser races have been known to break just by looking at it for too long.

The building he was now occupying was a mouldering ruin of peeling walls, and cracked ceilings constructed from a cheap resinous material.

As he contemplated his situation, Naerion spun a monomolecular blade in glittering arcs in one hand as he gazed upon the door, his other hand rested on the butt of a splinter pistol. With his allies gone, Anaeil was far out of his reach, and with the full might of the Invisible Hand at her command, she was practically untouchable. This was something that needed to be handled with patience, and tact. His advantage lay in the fact that just as he had underestimated her, she had overlooked his own capabilities. And now that her hand was turned, he would not underestimate her ever again. He would wait, gather strength, let her twist in the wind and let her guard down, and then he would strike.

He cursed his father for siring that harpy. And while he had every intention of one day disposing of him and assuming leadership of the Kabal for himself, a small withered part of him mourned his loss. Kuhral had done more than sire him, he had elevated Naerion above all others and taught him how to survive the endless intrigue of Kabalite politics, it was the closest thing to a caring parent one could find in Commorragh. Naerion swiftly banished those thoughts, he never had parents, in the end Kuhral had been just another obstacle in his plans, and now Anaeil had taken his place and would be likewise dealt with.

Naerion paused the dagger in it's mesmerizing dance over his fingers, and angled the blade so it caught his reflection. Pale, angular, patrician features framed with raven locks, and set with an amethyst gaze stared right back at him upon the surface of the polished metal. His was a face not so easily missed, greatly out of place next to the half-born degenerates that inhabited these regions of the eternal city. He was after all an important figure in many political circles up until two cycles ago.

It was therefore probably prudent to pay a visit to one of the haemonculi covens to have his features reshaped into a less recognizable form. But the thought stung his vanity bitterly, Naerion was very proud of the way he looked. Besides, he wanted his sister to recognize him before he cut out her eyes.

His sensitive ears detected the subtle hum of a Raider flying over the building, he could not stay here for long.

* * *

(Rictrix Spire, High Commorragh)

The kabalite fortress of the Invisible Hand was built into the apogee of the Rictrix spire, nestled deep in the most luxurious and wealthy part of the dark city. The fortress appeared as a barbed fruit mounted upon the tip of a spear, large numbers of skimmer craft and scourges flew around and upon it like a pox of flies.

The Invisible Hand was an old and powerful kabal, where other petty archons would need to endure the presence of other kabals in their own tier, the Invisible Hand had the entire spire to themselves, having long driven any rivals out into the lower districts. The Invisible Hand maintained it's own docks and shipyards, barracks, training fields, and factories giving them a self sufficiency that the vast majority of kabals lacked.

This was the legacy that newly ascended Archon Anaeil Ynneath had inherited. This was the culmination of fifty years of silent maneuvering, clandestine meetings, and the carefully orchestrated elimination of opponents. And in the end, she managed to not only kill her father, but remove her strongest opponent from the equation. But there was still a blemish on her victory; Naerion was still alive. Arrogant as he was, Naerion is a highly clever and resourceful creature. And now that she had lost track of him, he was more dangerous than ever.

Her underlings were of course hard at work trying to find and eliminate her wayward sibling, her saving grace lay in the fact that for all his subtleties, Naerion was unfamiliar with the regions and sub-realms below High Commorragh, having only left the spire to take part in raids, and then coming back bringing fresh captives and other spoils.

This inexperience would have invariably drawn him to seek shelter in Lower Commorragh, a warren constantly fought over by highly territorial kabals which tend to kill all trespassers on sight. There was hope in her darkened heart, that her brother's life would be claimed by the uncountable dangers and endless turf wars inimical to the area and it's decaying outer districts.

Still the Thirteen Foundations of Vengeance spoke very clearly on this – an enemy can never be presumed dead unless his body is found.

She sat regally upon her throne of obsidian and bone. The red half-light of the _Ilmaea, _Commorragh's captive suns, taken from realspace at the height of the Eldar Empire's glory and technological mastery, filled her throne room with their dying rays. Casting a hellish gleam upon the gaunt figure standing at the foot of the rings of steps which connected her raised dais to the floor, his head was bowed in silent submission.

"I trust you have everything in order?" She asked the wizened eldar. He looked up to her, pitch black eyes of infinite sadism and malice shouting out his profession as a master haemonculus. His name was Zalikith, a member of that mysterious and rightly feared class of torture scientists and flesh crafters, and masters of an art that made them an invaluable cornerstone of Commorrite civilization.

"Yes Lady Ynneath, everything is in place for the event that should you meet an untimely fate, you will not endure True Death," Zalikith purred, his sickly smile stretching his almost translucent skin.

Haemonculi have the ability to resurrect the recently departed, they can regenerate the body of an eldar from the merest scraps of flesh, thereby saving their souls from being devoured by She Who Thirsts and effectively cheating death. It was this contingency that made getting rid of her father, the previous Archon all the more difficult.

And as her coup had proven, the system was not infallible, there were ways to bestow guaranteed True Death upon a rival, but they were far from cheap or plentiful. But their mere existence was a threat to the future of her reign. Oh how fortunate was she, to have attracted the services of a being who specialized in the field of risk management.

"Excellent," she said steepling her fingers. Her throne room was empty for this discourse, the Incubi who had been guarding her father at the time of his demise had been killed by the same destructive event that lynch pinned her rise to power, an event that had unfortunately greatly angered the Hierarch of their shrine, who quickly saw through her scheme, voiding a contract that had lasted centuries. It would take a while to find another shrine willing to service her needs. She could not trust her own warriors to a task as vital as bodyguard duty.

"And what of your dear brother, my lady?" Zalikith inquired.

Anaeil's expression deepened to a frown, "He will be found and eliminated, if not by my own warriors than the denizens of Lower Commorragh, I have placed quite a lucrative murder-fee on his head, one that will ensure he receives no respite."

The haemonculus bowed his head almost imperceptibly as a sign of acknowledgment, "A shame truly, I had hoped to use his flesh as a canvas for my latest inspiration, he was such a promising specimen, excellent condition, no prior reanimations..." Anaeil silenced him with a raised hand. Not at all interested in hearing an academic dissertation of Naerion's body.

"That's enough, dear Zalikith, you may excuse yourself from my presence," she said offhandedly, reminding the haemonculus of his place.

"As you wish, mistress," Zalikith bowed with a measured slowness that lay just between mocking and condescending.

He then turned and headed for the exit.

When he was out of earshot, Anaeil let a hiss of anger escape her lips. If it was anyone else, she would have flayed them alive for such impertinence and gall. But Zalikith was invaluable to her ends, and the arrogant pain artist knew it. But if he were to ever pay such insult in front of her underlings, she would have no choice but to have him made an example of, fortunately he seemed to know that too.

More to the point, assassinating a haemonculus was poorly looked upon, and it would make the various haemonculi covens very leery of bestowing their patronage; and a kabal without access to their unique brand of expertise would die out very quickly.

She consoled herself that in time, his usefulness would come to any end, and she could discharge his services in favor of a more respectful chief haemonculus. And by that time Naerion would be dead, and her hold over the Invisible Hand total. She still had to weed out those who had been secretly backing her brother, and the fools who were already aligning themselves against her, intent on taking control of the kabal for themselves.

In this city, there was no margin allowed for error.

* * *

**A/N: I know, some of you want to kill me for making another Warhammer story while the other is unfinished, but I just couldn't help it! I've always wanted to write a Dark Eldar story, specifically one about the Incubi. Plus with the Dark Eldar, I can write characters in the most over the top fashion without breaking the theme of the faction, as long as I make them classy about it. All around, the Dark Eldar are fun to write about.**


	2. On The Run

"_Fondest salutations people of Commorragh, and my disappointment for those yet to arrive. I am Hassarian; teller of tales and iterator of truths. Now my dear Commorrites, honored archons and dracons. Look at yourselves, now back to me, now back to yourselves, now back to me. Sadly my dear friends, you aren't me. _

_Now that, that depressing detail has been introduced, I henceforth consign my brilliant talents to your entertainment. We begin with our setting; this great city with a skyline that can- and will be- viewed from all angles. Our characters, the fallen noble Naerion Ynneath, his dangerously cunning sister Anaeil, and her charming companion Zalikith, and then of course myself; but that is an introduction for a later part of the unfolding drama as are the other personae of import to this fantastically darkling tale that I had been consigned to witness first hand. We now reach back, to the past, Naerion is in hiding, little knowing that destiny is soon about to seize him." _- Death Jester Hassarian, regarding his signature epic.

* * *

The Raider, bearing the black and dark purple coloration scheme of his kabal on it's hull, and the white hand-print insignia on it's grav-sail was hovering directly over the interior courtyard, ten Invisible Hand warriors were laden upon it, the green lenses of their helmet visors peered in every direction, calling upon the peerless visual perception inimical to the eldar race to find him.

Naerion was now certain someone must have seen him in this area, and reported it to the search parties, already they were starting to tighten the noose around him.

Fighting them would be suicide. Though he was more than a match for every one of them individually, engaging an entire squad was beyond his abilities, especially as under equipped as he currently was. Furthermore, announcing his presence would do little more than draw in the other search parties for the kill. Complicating his odds of survival.

The best approach here was to stay hidden until they moved on or find a way to sneak out of this area and through the search cordon, find another place to hide.

Then he heard it; a distinctive whine climbing rapidly to a high pitch. In that moment, he knew that hiding was no longer an option for him.

Naerion leaped through the door just as a dark lance beam cut into the room. The fearsome long-throated heavy energy cannon, intended for vaporizing the armored vehicles of younger races with ruinous fingers of dark energy gutted the room inside of an instant, and now he was wide open for the warriors mounted upon the vehicle's side. Five splinter rifles spoke in unison, Naerion was executing a rolling recovery from his leap when he sensed the toxin coated splinters splitting the air around him at hyper-velocity.

He slid swiftly behind the cover of a ruined plinth that once held a statue, overlooking the triangular courtyard long fallen to disrepair which was open to the sky that was now darkened by the Raider. Naerion was now pinned down on the third level, and it would not take long for that dark lance to fire again, and there would be nothing left of him to reanimate.

Fortune seemed to be smiling on him however, frightened by the noise, the mulish emaciated form of a male mon-keigh leaped through a nearby door, seemingly intent on making a run for it. Naerion pounced like a sabrecat, and seized the human by the arms. The slave shrieked a curse in it's awkward grunting language as Naerion dragged it across the open balcony at full run. The human twitched as splinter fire struck him, even as he ran Naerion savored the taste of the slave's agonized soul energy; fortified he redoubled his pace and gripped the convulsing meat shield tighter.

The Dark Lance spoke again, carving away the balcony right in front of him forcing him to close his eyes to avoid getting his retinas scarred. Naerion shifted the rapidly expiring slave under him as he stumbled down the void in the floor. The splinter riddled slave finally died when his spine snapped upon the fallen rubble, but he served his final purpose of cushioning Naerion from the impromptu decent to the second level.

Naerion quickly rolled off the corpse, got to his feet and sprinted, his robe flapping behind him as it caught the dust filled air, the Raider was now lowering itself to allow the mounted warriors a bead on his fleeing form. He rushed through a hall that connected to an overlook viewing the exterior of the tenement complex, he ducked as another dark lance cut through the walls like a hot knife through butter. The hall sagged under the unsupported weight and collapsed as he reached the overlook.

Another building had been erected beside this one, directly in front of him on the other side of the divide was a window covered with cheap and degraded resin-board. As the hall came down around him, Naerion leaped, both feet landing on the solid guardrail, he kicked off the rail and flew across the two meter gap, driving his shoulder into the boarded window.

Crashing into the room on the other side, Naerion quickly became aware that it was occupied. The smell of sweat, blood, and cheap drugs, followed by the surprised yelps of said inhabitants brought him to full awareness. Two eldar, male and female, locked together naked on a bed paused in their pain and narcotic enhanced fornication, eyes wide in a mixture of euphoria and shock, the female looked slightly like Anaeil. The splinter pistol was in hand within a heartbeat, he quickly fired a pair of envenomed shards into each of their necks, they collapsed upon each other, foaming at the mouth in a silent seizure, still joined together as they died.

Naerion hurried out of the room through the door and into a hallway. This place was far better maintained than the tenement, the walls were mostly clean and painted in vibrant red, glow-globes filled the darkness with pink light, his synth-skin boots rested on plush red carpet.

The sweet smell of sex and psychoactive incense was heavy here, and the sounds of pain filled groans and rapturous moans clued him in to his current location; he was in a pleasure den. A place where the denizens of Low Commorragh worked off their ever present Thirst and libidos in a haze of sub-quality drugs and cheap sex. Males and females willfully sold their bodies in exchange for the currency tokens used in this particular region of the lower city. Naerion personally veered away from the pleasures of the flesh and senses, focusing most of his attention on perfecting his skills as a warrior and advancing his position in the kabal, when he needed stimulation he would attend the bloody spectacles of the Wych Cult arenas or torture the soul energy out of a slave, either on an operating table with the aid of an excruciatior wand or in a fighting pit at the tip of his blade.

In his mind, a courtesan could always be an assassin sent by his rivals to gut him the moment she got close enough, drugs befuddled the mind and warped the senses he needed to keep his guard up. Some had called his behavior prudish and paranoid, but he would always argue that self-control was more rewarding than mindless plunges into sensual abyss, and further elevated him above the low-born kin.

He advanced through the corridor in silent contempt of his gawdy surroundings, and those who enjoyed such carnal indiscretions. Their ties to the mortal coil be shorter for it.

Suffice to say, Naerion was angry. Very, very angry. And as member of a race who experienced emotions far more acutely than any other, it was a very dangerous state of mind to be in. It is said that Khaine bestowed the gift of hatred upon the Eldar, the ability to feel rage so fierce it clawed at the soul. When a craftworld eldar felt the touch of the strife giving god, it would invariably commit a tantrum in the face of it's bruised and pathetic feelings and ego and set themselves upon the path of the warrior until their ire and thirst for death calmed down. When a member of the True People was infused with anger, nothing short of the total destruction of the bringer of such wrongdoing will ever satisfy.

Naerion wanted nothing more than to storm the fortress of the Invisible Hand and strangle his treacherous sister with his bare hands. It poisoned his mind and corroded his judgment, and his inability to satisfy the rage in his heart made him want to murder everything in this entire building, and then carry out the bloodshed into the streets.

Leaning around a corner, he came upon a balcony that overlooked an open, four leveled gallery with a ground floor thronging with patrons, and entertainers of various states of dress ranging from bare to just below minimum dignity. Among the sea of oversexed hedonists he could see the tall helmed, glossy black and purple armored forms of Invisible Hand warriors, who attracted wary glances and appeared to be newly arrived, though they were not the same group who attacked him from aloft in the tenement.

He did not have much time, more and more search parties would arrive as time went by. Ducking behind the corner again, he lowered the muzzle velocity on his splinter pistol to a sub-sonic setting. He leaned out from the corner and aimed carefully down the precision optical sight, hand held steady, and fired four times. None of the kabalite warriors were hit, but the center stage dancer gyrating sensually as she stripped articles of clothing off who suddenly collapsed on the spot, two mercenary guards minding the kabalites swayed and fell, and what appeared to be the owner of the establishment who gurgled once before keeling over, these ones were not so lucky; and because the shots were traveling slower than normal, nobody could have detected were they came from, so naturally they all panicked.

Splinter pistols, rifles, knives, and swords were drawn, and shouting rose to a chorus. Then shots were fired. The patrons whose composure was weakened by their intake of drugs, and emotional energy immediately turned on the outsiders who were seen as the prime suspects of the confused incident and attacked.

As predicted the kabalite warriors immediately reacted in appropriately brutal fashion, they fired their splinter rifles into the enraged patrons, the discordant stacatto buzzing of continuous fire filled the pleasure-den, along with screams of agony as shots met their marks. A few of the warriors fell to return fire, but the rest continued to slay without mercy, either shooting them with lethal splinters, or eviscerating them in close combat with the monomolecular blades affixed under the barrels of their rifles. The warrior class of High Commorragh was not a force to be trifled with.

Naerion was tempted to stay, the boiling sensations of departing souls in agony was rich in the aroma of desperation and terror was delectable, but this was the best chance he had to escape.

He looked to the other end of the balcony, and what he saw took him aback.

Standing within the frame of doorway on the other side was a figure wearing a stunning panoply of black armor, razor sharp spines and blades adorned his armor and crowned his helmet, in each hand he carried a vicious blade with a hooked tip that glowed with pale coruscating energy, even from this distance Naerion could feel a profound aura of menace and bloodlust coming off the warrior in waves. The spectral figure made a beckoning motion with it's blades and disappeared into the shadows beyond the doorway.

Naerion hesitated for a moment, normally when you come upon a figure even remotely matching that description, it was the height of stupidity to follow after it. But Naerion, for some insane reason felt that this being was actually here to help.

The decision was made for him when the sound of the bordello's doors crashing open to admit several squads of Invisible Hand kabalite warriors, who had begun spraying the crowd with volleys of accurate splinter fire. They were going to slay everyone in this building to find him.

He stole across the balcony under the cover of the stone guiderail, reaching the other side undetected. The kabalites were cutting through the remaining patrons with deadly efficiency, the sheer terror and agonies they were emitting were scintillating to the extreme, and as he reached the doorway Naerion felt himself feeling more refreshed than he had been in many cycles.

Of the darkened warrior there was no sign, but Naerion could feel a trail of that same bloody malevolence on the air, and in his current state of mind he was helpless but to follow.

The trail led him through a hallway similar to the one on the other side of the building. It led him into another pleasure room, this one vacant. The window in the room was unboarded, and the trail led right through it. As if controlled by an outside source, Naerion opened the window and promptly stepped out of it and dropped into an alley. The trail urged him forwards, to a drainage culvert in a wall where filthy water pooled through and around.

The bars were brittle and easy to break with appropriate force, and Naerion continued forth sliding down an incline into a sluice channel, stinking with the accumulated rot of filth and the decomposing remains of disposed corpses. Naerion barely had enough time to wonder where his hygienic sensibilities had taken leave to before the dark warrior's trail urged him further along the path.

Naerion was not easily spurred to fear, but he wondered if he had somehow become the witless mind-thrall of some manner of warp creature, or worse a diabolical agent of She Who Thirsts. But the evident lack of his soul essence being siphoned away by an outside force beyond the everyday slow decay experienced by everyone told him this was not the case.

The trail of hate led him through sharp turns and corners through the sluice tunnels. His eyes, surgically augmented by the haemonculi to see in total darkness, easily pierced the gloom. And with his finely trained sense of hearing, he knew that something was following him. When he stopped the tagalong also stopped. As he continued he could hear more sounds of hands and feet moving on all fours along the tunnel.

He knew what was hunting him, having dealt with their verminous ilk before. But not until now had he actually had to kill one.

As he walked, Naerion waited for the right moment. _Closer, come closer..._

_ Now! _Naerion turned, and slashed his monomolecular blade in a wide horizontal arc, a splash of black blood decorated the walls of the sluice tunnel, two invisible shapes fell to the floor in a shallow splash. Materializing into view, the headless body of a shadow skinned Mandrake appeared before his feet, a long crude blade clutched in it's dead grasp.

It wasn't a true Mandrake, it was a lesser form of the breed that could not fully phase out of the material realm hence the fact that he heard it and it's fellows coming. Outcasts then, too stunted to cavort with the fully gifted members of it's kind.

The other demi-Mandrakes phased out of their lackluster connection to the shadow realm and pounced upon him, mouths wide and hungry.

Naerion did not bother with his splinter pistol, the toxic ammunition probably would not affect their abnormal physiology anyway.

His dagger swung downward, cleanly bisecting a female creeper's head down the middle before he kicked the body back into her compatriots. "Die mutant filth!" Naerion spat as he layed into them with his incredibly sharp blade.

A darting flick disembowled a shadow creature, a lightning jab ran another through it's twisted heart, Naerion counting on his experience and training artfully dispatched the lesser Mandrakes in suitably gory fashion, barely a challenge at all. But his rage was hardly sated.

He left the bloody corpses behind, and continued forwards, chasing the trail of the dark warrior.

**A/N: And so Naerion has instigated a bloodbath and gives zero shits in his defense. Isn't it amazing what a character can accomplish when he is morally bankrupt? But who is this mysterious dark warrior? And where is he leading our decidedly unheroic protagonist?**


	3. The Safekeep

"_Destroying your rivals, seizing all that is theirs, and hearing the lamentations of lesser species; these are what is best in life," _-Archon Chuthural of the Eternal Star Kabal.

* * *

It is said that no two parts of Commorragh are the same. The districts and spires of the eternal city and it's connected sub-realms each had a distinctive flavor. It would take more than a single lifetime to sample the outer districts of Low Commorragh alone, that is if the residing kabals did not kill you for trespassing upon their territory.

So when Naerion ventured out of the sluice ways after hours of walking and being attacked by lesser Mandrakes and the souless Parched, he immediately noticed the differences here.

Instead of an overpopulated warren of tenements and pleasure-dens, he was now in a marketplace. The streets outside the alley he emerged from were thronging with eldar, slaves, and even a few aliens who walked with the cautious gait of a visitor. He quickly recognized this place to be the Kirshara Talon, an immense port that serviced the raiding ships of smaller kabals, and the trading vessels of numerous alien races here to risk their souls for a chance to partake of the wealth of the eternal city.

He had followed the trail of the dark warrior until it ended here. No trace of the mysterious specter could be seen. But perhaps it was no coincidence that he had been led here.

Naerion, despite his present feelings of wrath cracked a small smile, fortune shined upon him. It was time to visit an old acquaintance.

It was a rather uneventful day in the life of Iriskyr, owner and operator of a bar on the extreme edge of the market district of Kirshara Talon, close to a bank of dozens of docking spines operated by the many kabals that have claimed rights to one or more of them.

Due to this proximity, he could often count on receiving large numbers of patrons each day, mostly in the form of victorious kabalite warriors fresh from a realspace raid. They would then boast their exploits- mostly exaggerated- and partake of spiced wines and pleasure slaves before staggering back to their strongholds.

This allowed him to intercept many tidbits of information for his secret masters in the Kabal of the Invisible Hand. It was a task he had pursued for many decades ever since he assassinated the bar's previous owner.

Iriskyr heard the door to his bar cycle open, revealing a tall eldar dressed in a hooded black cloak and face mask, and he looked absolutely filthy. But as he strode over, Iriskyr took note of the stranger's gait. Long strides full of surety, strength, and a strong hint of authority. The stranger's bearing was that of someone who considered himself of high importance.

The stranger walked up to the bar counter and spoke in a distinctive High Commorrite cant, "I wish to rent the attic room."

Iriskyr paused, "I believe you are misinformed, this humble establishment does not have an attic room."

The eldar inclined his head slightly, "Such misfortune is mine, if that is the case would you suggest an alternative?"

"There is one in the basement, follow me." He replied.

He led the cloaked eldar through a door on the right, and down a spiral staircase to the level below. He then proceeded to the second door on the left and opened it, holding it open for the stranger, who proceeded within silently. Iriskyr followed him in and made a straight line for a bare wall, he touched the wall in sixteen random points. After a moment a hidden door slid seamlessly to the floor.

He entered the secret safekeep, followed by the masked eldar. The chamber was mostly dark, but it was filled with all sorts of objects. Weapons racks, armor stands, stacks of data-wafers, tools of torture, and other oddments.

Iriskyr tapped a control on the side of the door that closed it again before turning to the stranger.

"Your arrival was unexpected, I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of news for lord Kuhral."

The stranger removed his hood and mask, upon seeing his face Iriskyr lost his composure and quickly bowed on one knee. "Dracon Ynneath! It is an honor to have you in my establishment!" He said, abasing himself shamelessly.

Dracon Naerion Ynneath gazed dispassionately down at him, his dark amethyst eyes briefly flitted with some inscrutable emotion. Iriskyr did not care much for that though, he was ecstatic being in the presence of someone so high in the Invisible Hand's hierarchy. It greatly swelled his sense of importance to the powerful kabal.

"As it should be, dear Iriskyr," Naerion drawled, further increasing his excitement of being addressed by name.

"I have come here in search of answers, Iriskyr. Our kabal has been betrayed, and though the plot is foiled the perpetrator has escaped vengeance, the weight of this betrayal is such that it has demanded my personal attention."

Iriskyr bowed his head, "I will do what I can to satisfy my lord dracon, but I have doubts that I can add to your own scope of knowledge," he said in an attempt to kiss up to Naerion.

"I have placed a rather... generous murder-fee on this renegade's head. But he as yet remains unfound."

Iriskyr bowed his head deeper, "I have heard the Invisible Hand was looking for someone, but I have yet to receive details."

"Someone is sheltering him, someone willing to ignore the reward I have placed on his demise, and I have reason to believe his path has run through this Talon."

Iriskyr paused a moment to formulate an answer, "Lord dracon, there are very few groups willing to shelter such a fugitive, or keep him safe from our kabal's vengeance."

"I would be obliged if you could name them," Naerion said, his eyes flashing with anger.

"The first would be the Black Heart kabal, the tyrant's power sadly overshadows every other high kabal in the city, and he is well within ability to grant immunity to the traitor. Where other kabals would likely have delivered him as tribute."

Naerion's eyes darkened with hate further, the Invisible Hand kabal had originated from one of the many noble families displaced by Asdrubael Vect's rise to power, and have never forgiven him for overturning the old order.

"He could also have sought refuge in the Undercity, there are a few portals on the Kirshara Talon that lead down there, the haemonculi would have probably killed him by now if that was the case." The sight of his lord becoming more impatient urged the craven eldar to continue.

"The only other group that could possibly grant him sanctuary are the Incubi, there is a portal on this talon that leads to the shrine of the Ebon Blade, they will take anyone into their fold... but few ever survive."

Naerion seemed to ponder over his words for a moment. Suddenly there was a low-frequency whine from a pedestal in the center of the room, Iriskyr slowly got up to his feet and walked over to the crystalline device resting upon it.

He tapped the device and an image of his bar was displayed, there were three new patrons in his bar, kabalite warriors of the Invisible Hand. He noticed that one of them was showing an image of an eldar on a hololith crystal to the other patrons, Iriskyr zoomed the image upon the light construct. He gasped silently as he identified the features of Naerion Ynneath himself, with a death mark floating clearly over his head.

Iriskyr wheeled around to see Naerion standing right behind him, a sword taken from one of the weapon racks in hand.

"Such ill timing," the renegade dracon sneered, "My sincerest apologies my dear Iriskyr, but your usefulness to me is expended."

Iriskyr backed away, fear in his eyes, "My lord, please! I won't tell them anything! There... there is an escape exit behind me, j-just go I will pretend I never saw you!"

Naerion's lips twisted in a cruel smirk, "Ah, dear Iriskyr. You forgot one of the Thirteen Foundations of Vengeance- the dead will bear no testimony against me."

And without further prompting, Naerion cut the eldar bar tender in twain with an overhead stroke, his two halves parted and fell to the floor, coloring the stone with pale blood.

* * *

Naerion quickly donned a suit of plain glossy black armor, of the kind normally worn by mercenaries and Low Commorrite warriors. Cheap and mass manufactured, certainly nothing like the master-crafted set he had worn as a dracon. Forgoing vanity in favor of discretion, he also put on a bullet shaped blank-faced helmet with yellow eye pieces. Despite this arrangement being hardly worthy of someone his stature and pedigree, he felt a sense of completeness wash over him as he belted the sword around his waist, and ran a hand over the body of a common variety splinter rifle.

Naerion first and foremost considered himself a warrior. He was most at home when equipped in the trappings of bloodshed and violence, leaving his city at the head of a raiding army to inflict the latest of many atrocities upon the young mongrel races. And despite the low quality of the wargear, it still reawakened those feelings.

Naerion reflected on the options that the half-born informant had indirectly laid out for him. Naerion refused to beg for protection from the likes of the tyrant and his legion of sycophants. Naerion like all descendants of the noble houses, hated the Supreme Overlord with a burning, but veiled passion. And in the end, he would be nothing more than a puppet for the tyrant, further eroding the honor of House Ynneath.

The same went for the Haemonculi for obvious reasons, he would be reduced to a slavish lifestyle until the end of days, and that is assuming they would not torture the soul out of him for even entering the Undercity.

And then there was the Incubus sect. Mercenary warriors of terrifying caliber possessed with bizarre notions of honor and duty. While certainly more attractive than the other two options, there was also the fact that the average Incubus shrine has a ninety-percent fatality rate amongst it's aspirants. Naerion also knew that Incubi never walked away from their profession once initiated, and that for some reason they universally refused reanimation after death, thus ensuring their eventual commute down the maw of She Who Thirsts. Madness.

But in the end that was the fate he was facing now. The pacts he had forged to ensure his resurrection in the event of death were now dissolved, if he died today it would be the end of it. An eternity of torment at the hand of the Prince of Chaos.

Driven by that thought, Naerion focused on the subject of his escape.

True to Iriskyr's word, there was a hidden exit at the back of the safekeep. A tunnel stretched onwards beyond it leading to some indeterminable destination. Confronted yet again with a lack of options, Naerion proceeded through.

As his steps echoed through the rank corridor, Naerion contemplated if this was some sort of trap, if there was at this moment agents of the Invisible Hand watching the hidden exit, or possibly the eyes of rival kabals. The latter group would try to kill him for the sake of interfering with the Invisible Hand; the former would tail him and try to figure out his identity and purpose, and then of course try to kill him.

Eventually, he came to the end of the tunnel. At it's end rested an open webway gate. An elliptical construct of metal and stone that appeared worn from age.

Naerion hesitated, there was no telling where this gate would take him, it's connected twin could very well lie in the fortress of the Invisible Hand. In ages past before the Fall, this construct could have taken him to millions of destinations across the Eldar Empire connected by the Webway. But now their use was mostly confined to the eternal city, and walking through one blindly without knowing it's terminus point could very well be the last mistake he ever makes.

His hand brushed over a control panel on the right hand side of the gate, with practiced efficiency he began inputting the sequences necessary to open the gate. A shimmering rift of blue and white light formed within the ellipse, forming a link with it's twin, wherever it may lay in Commorragh, a city of a million gates. With some trepidation, Naerion stepped through the gate and disappeared from the corridor.

* * *

The torture chambers of the Invisible Hand echoed with the agonized cries of warriors that had failed their mistress.

Anaeil could broker no weakness in her kabal, lest their incompetence reflect back to the top, to her. She had to maintain the image of dignified control and vigilance, else her enemies would quickly move to take her down, enemies that extended far beyond her exiled brother.

The Pleasure-Den Massacre as it came to be called, had lead to the pointless slaying of well over a hundred people, and not one of the bodies identified had belonged to Naerion who had undoubtedly instigated the fiasco to cover his escape. That sounded just like him, it was one of the qualities she had admired in him.

Sadly it also reflected poorly on her kabal, and that was something that could not be condoned. Her brother's ill-starred survival was only complicating her establishment of control over the kabal, he was a solid force for her enemies to rally around, and so long as he contrived to keep breathing, her position would remain just as insecure.

* * *

It turned out the gate's twin was being staked out. Not by the Invisible Hand, but by a lesser kabal. The Kabal of the Swollen Eyeball was one of the more meddlesome of the petty kabals that inhabited the Kirshara Talon and made up it's power-structure, and were well known to be little more than unimaginative opportunists who replaced their archon every other week.

Eight warriors had been waiting for him, though judging by their unready stances he had taken them by surprise. They were in a circular room with a large metal table in the center, and a nest of glow globes affixed to the ceiling. Their shock had lasted all of one second, but by that time Naerion was already firing.

It was quickly apparent these eldar were not the equal of the warriors employed by the Invisible Hand. They were disorganized and sloppy, poorly prepared for the sudden attack. But being residents of a city that knew no respite from danger, they were still not to be discounted.

Firing as he ran, he brought two down with headshots as he closed the distance, but one lucky panic burst had sent a venomed splinter into the armor of his leg, and into the flesh of his thigh.

Pain ran like wildfire through his veins as the toxin tweaked his pain centers. Roaring in anger, Naerion thrust the bayonet attached to his rifle through the neck of the nearest kabalite, anointing the front of his armor and helmet with a bright red carotid spray, he then dropped the weapon and drew out his sword.

With a heroic effort of willpower, Naerion drove on through the pain wracking his body as he swung his blade left right and center. The Swollen Eyeball warriors tried to parry the blows with their bayonets, but Naerion's experience and mastery of the blade won him through. One by one he struck down the warriors, but the poison took the edge off his skills. A glancing blow from a monomolecular blade nicked open a gash in his bicep plate, blood quickly weltered out.

Finally, Naerion plunged his sword into the chest of the last warrior, skewering his heart and ending his life. He savored the taste of the passing eldar soul before sagging to the floor. Fortunately he had spent the last century building up resistance to various forms of poison, he would hazard to guess that the substance running through his body was a pain agent called _Scourgebane _if it weren't for his carefully fortified system, he would have been left screaming in agony upon the floor by that shot.

But there was another problem that was potentially disastrous, he was certain the monomolecular blade that grazed him had been coated in an anti-coagulating agent, if he did not treat it soon he was going to bleed to death. _No, not like that. That's just insulting._

He shakily got to his feet and turned to the exit, then paused.

The dark warrior was standing there.

At this distance he could make out a detail that he had missed during their first encounter, two bulbous pods affixed to either side of the helmet, and he knew them for what they were. Mandiblasters; the signature weapon of the Striking Scorpions, aspect warriors of the Craftworld cousins. His armor even bore the telltale hints of wraithbone construction. But the blades he carried, they were demi-klaives, weapons used exclusively by the Incubi, nobody outside their order was even allowed to touch one on pain of death. Who in the name of Eldanesh was he?

The Incubus/Scorpion warrior cocked it's head ever so slightly to the left. And then Naerion felt it. The all consuming urge to kill, radiating from the menacing warrior who turned away and walked out through the exit, leaving a trail of hate behind him that pricked at Naerion's latent empathic abilities. "Wait..." Naerion called out. But the warrior was already gone.

What was this warrior's purpose? Where was it trying to lead him? Should he follow? These questions and many more twisted in Naerion's pain hazed mind. Yet for reasons beyond his comprehension, Naerion felt compelled to follow after this warrior; he was getting tired of running, and hiding became more futile with each passing cycle.

Naerion bent down to retrieve his splinter rifle from the ruined body of his third kill before stepping through the exit after the trail, his gait subtly shaken by the pain his body still experienced.

* * *

**A/N: So Naerion is once more following the mysterious warrior, I hope I dropped enough hints to let you guess who the guy really is. Anyway, next chapter our anti-hero will finally make it to the Incubus shrine. And from there, the real body of the story can begin.**


	4. Margorach

_"If the first attempt does not triumph, the likelihood of the second succeeding is all the dimmer for it," -_ Thirteen Foundations of Vengeance.

* * *

The gate had taken him to the other end of the Kirshara Talon, from here the brooding light of the _Ilmaea _touched the Talon with it's diseased illumination, piercing through the branching spires of Low Commorragh like a solitary clearing in a haunted forest, bathing the murky depths in eternal twilight. The immense docking mega-structure seemed to be straining towards it, like a dark flower seeking rays of sustenance. For Naerion it was like being at the bottom of a deep undersea pit infested with millions of deadly creatures.

As Naerion followed the wrath covered trail, he now found himself willingly walking it, rather than seduced by it's dark promises. While it was debatable whether or not the pain and blood loss was affecting his perception of reality, he could honestly say he never felt more certain of were he was going.

Walking through the twilit streets, he passed through flesh markets selling varieties of slaves, from commonplace mon'keigh, to the very rare Exodite captive. Bids for the finest specimens were being called out, a female child was torn from it's weeping human sow, sold to a wrack to be inevitably subjected to the attentions of it's haemonculus master.

The voices grew ever louder as a collection of blue skinned aliens belonging to that new and advanced species calling itself the Tau. Their expressions of bewildered naivety and infantile horror obviously pleasing to the soul hungry crowd. Naerion continued onward.

He had come to accept that he would never be able to rejoin his kabal, he had fallen too far from High Commorragh to ever be able to return, and even if he got around to killing his sister, the kabal would still be just as inclined as ever to cast him aside. But what else could he ever be than Dracon Ynneath? What would he do now that part of his existence was at an end?

He gazed up towards the smog obscured shape of the _Ilmaea _hanging over the vermin infested hole that he had willingly descended into, with his sharp eyes he could just make out a few of the spires of High Commorragh, his home. He clenched his hands into fists.

A dark part of him, a part that had grown stronger ever since his sister's coup, urged him to slay anything that crossed his sight. He fought to keep it under control, as the last thing he wished to do was bring attention to himself, the kabals here were highly intolerant of open violence on the streets as it got in the way of the efficient operation of the Talon, and their warriors tended to shoot first and ask questions not at all.

Despite his wish to keep a low profile, the denizens crowding this district parted before him on instinct, obviously detecting his strong willingness to kill in the way he walked and carried himself. The fact that he was also covered helmet to boot in blood may also have been a contributing factor. Although blood covered warriors was not exactly an uncommon sight in Low Commorragh.

When he took a turn left down a narrow alley, he became aware that he was being followed. A pair of eldar who had been behind him for quite some time had taken the turn with him about two dozen paces away, and were looking suspiciously furtive in their steps, sloppy.

When they drew splinter pistols, that was all the reason he needed to kill them. He whipped around and opened fire with his splinter rifle, the would-be assassins were not wearing any armor, and went down with almost disappointing ease. It was only when he heard the subtle rasp of segmented plates did he realize he had been duped.

The real assassins, unmarked warriors clad in dark green armor, burst out of the buildings behind him and leveled their weapons to fire. Reacting quickly, Naerion leaped into cover behind the head of a fallen statue.

"Come out Ynneath! I am bringing your head to your sibling on a platter this day!" The supposed leader of the group shouted out over the din of hypersonic glass splinters impacting upon stone.

Naerion was curious about how they found him, but for now his immediate concern was either killing them or at the very least escaping this confrontation with his life.

"I am afraid that is quite out of the question," drawled a tired voice. Naerion leaned out of cover just in time to see the six assassins come under fire from an unknown source. Glittering starlike projectiles fell down from overhead, the assassins moved to find cover of their own, three of them were not so lucky.

The three writhed on the ground and their bodies swelled grotesquely inside their armor, moments later they exploded in a splash of blood, viscera, and broken sections of armor. While they were distracted Naerion shot the remaining warriors in the back, the fast-acting neurotoxin coating his splinters swiftly killed them.

He then edged out of cover to witness his mysterious benefactor.

It was a tall eldar, clad in an archaic looking high-collared black coat with hems that reached down to his knees. He wore a close-fitting doublet fashioned into the likeness of a skeletal ribcage on his torso, and comical looking bell-bottomed pants bi-patterned in black and white diamond motley on the right leg, and vertical red and black stripes on the left. Upon his head he wore a mask likened to a bleached skull. But most striking however was the large heavy support weapon that he carried in his black gloved hands, he identified it as a shuriken cannon a weapon used extensively by the craftworld cousins, but it was unlike any variant of the weapon he had ever seen.

"You need not be concerned with me, I mean you no harm," the bizarrely dressed eldar said, addressing Naerion.

Naerion was about to protest that statement before he noticed the a symbol inscribed on one of the large lapels of the stranger's coat, one that he knew very well.

"What business does the masque have in interfering with my affairs?" Naerion snapped at the heavily armed and recently identified Harlequin.

The Harlequin's mocking laughter made caused a light shiver to travel up Naerion's spine, "Business you say? Dear noble friend, I am in the business of dark entertainment," he gestured to the bloody smears that remained of the assassins he gunned down, "I was looking to expand my business, but if you believe I have overextended my business into your affairs I am deeply sorry," he said with a non-committal tone.

"Who are you?"

"Ah, my manners. Allow me to introduce myself properly," he slung his shuriken cannon over his shoulder and then about-turned dramatically.

"Hello! Here I am a humble Harlequin, casting himself humorously as both hero and hokie, by the harkening of fate. Hasting not to hilarity I stand hovering and heckling to hubris and hypocrisy, while happily disregarding hell, heresy, and hedonism of the high handed heirs of this city. Herebefore this honest introduction, I have heard hype and holler of homicide most horrible. Hereunto now I see Him, hunted, harassed, and hopeless, hurrying from home and harnessed of hate!"

The harlequin leaned upon his weapon like a cane as he continued, "Hereafter, I hear hymns heavy of hysteria and harmony. Heralding the homecoming of the honorable and the heedful."

He chuckled lightly, "This hefty, handling of wordage harbingers most horrid, so let me say it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me Hassarian."

Naerion stared at him blankly through his visor, "Why are you here?"

"Finally the real question," the Harlequin said, "As I said before, I am here on business. For you see, you have been most colorful in your efforts to evade capture these last few cycles, myself and my masque are intrigued," the Death Jester canted his stance slightly to the left, obviously in appraisal, "You are touched by the gift of Khaine, a hunger for discord that grows larger by the passing moment. What vision of destiny drives you so urgently onward my noble friend?"

"Where I am going is none of your concern, clown," Naerion snapped.

"Ah, then I shall indulge you in my foremost hypothesis. From your direction of travel, and your irate state of mentality I would venture to guess you seek the gate to the Shrine of the Ebon Blade."

Naerion's eyes narrowed as the realization of his destination fell upon him. Subconsciously he knew that his path was leading him to the dark shrines of the incubi, but was that what he truly wished. The doom of inescapable death had been lingering over him since he escaped the Rictrix Spire. Like all citizens of Commorragh, he knew it was only a matter of time before True Death claimed him, it could take a century or thousands of years but one way or another, She Who Thirsts would have Her due.

When he was a child, and deemed old enough to understand, he had wept bitter tears of anguish when he learned what his ultimate fate would be. Since that time he had striven to cheat death at every turn, and grasp for every advantage he possibly could. He was now quarter way through his fourth century of existence on the mortal plane, and he had long lost track of the number of slaves and kin that had suffered and died to keep him from the nightmare beyond death. While he cared not a whit for the atrocities he had committed (he was in fact rather proud of them), he was absolutely galled that all that preparation, toil, and effort would all come to nothing in the end.

"I take that as a yes then," Hassarian said.

"It is the only option left to me!" Naerion snarled. And that was the truth, the only other option would be to join Vect's cronies, forever forfeiting his pride in exchange for whatever time the Tyrant allowed him in this forsaken existence. And that was what suddenly hit him; survival was not enough.

"There are always choices," Hassarian admonished, "And while I do not understand the bloody-handed ways of the incubi, nor in any way condone them, it is your choice and yours alone."

Naerion lowered his head slightly in a clear sign of contempt for the Harlequin's words and moved to continue walking the trail that lead him towards destiny. He had to bite down a hiss of rage when he sensed the Death Jester following his steps not far behind.

"Although, I hope you won't mind company, for I have not in fact ever seen an incubus shrine before."

* * *

The Dark City was a rather curious place. Many had likened it to a cancer spreading through the Webway, as each realm the Commorrites discovered and conquered further expanded it's size and power. But to truly understand what Commorragh is, one has to first visit it in person.

Hassarian like all followers of Cegorach had the luxury to visit it not as slaves, but welcomed guests, and Hassarian came here more than most.

In their own forbidding way the denizens of the darkling city were fascinating. They were a living reminder of what the eldar were before the Fall, and yet they had managed to form a stable society and were possibly the most successful out of all the factions of their fractured race. It was almost as if the Eldar Empire had never truly been destroyed. And with that said, it's sins and splendors lived on through the works of the dark kin.

And with all of that considered, one would wonder why a masque of Harlequins would take an interest in someone like Naerion, who at first glance appears to be little more than another outcast Trueborn, irate and ever grasping for a return to prominence.

But Naerion was different, he could see that now as he followed the fallen dracon through the streets and alleys of Kirshara Talon. The Harlequins among other things kept an eye on specific individuals, eldar with the seeds of potential greatness within them; the ability to accomplish extraordinary things, both benign and terrible. And Hassarian was certain Naerion was more capable of the latter than the former.

The gate was up ahead, it was on the left side of the Talon close to the tip in a moderately busy market plaza, it was active and open to the Webway, and wherever realm the Shrine of the Ebon Blade was nestled in.

"A thought has crossed my mind Naerion," Hassarian said breaking the silence, a silence that Naerion had evidently enjoyed seeing the way his shoulders had slumped the moment he spoke. But Hassarian continued regardless, "The shrines of the incubi are many in number, why be lead to this one when surely others were closer?"

"Do you not have some morality play to attend to? Or are you trying to make my life more complicated?" Naerion demanded without turning around.

Hassarian gave him a condescending laugh in return, "My dear would-be supplicant of the murderous arts, my purpose in life extends far beyond writing ingenious sonnets and wearing this dashing wardrobe," for a moment Hassarian debated whether he should reveal to Naerion that he had crafted this skeletal costume from the remains of the masque's previous Death Jester, perhaps he would enlighten him at a later date, "Or as you so put it, complicating your existence."

"Then why bother me with inane questions?" Naerion hissed turning around to face him.

"Boredom naturally," Hassarian replied, Naerion's hand shifted slightly towards his sword, obviously a great battle of willpower was erupting in his mind, obviously deciding whether or not to kill him and end the conversation there. Killing Harlequins was one of the few things expressly forbidden in Commorragh.

"Once we reach the shrine, I will be rid of you," Naerion said with finality, turning around and continuing towards the gate.

Hassarian chuckled, "We? Getting attached to the idea of companionship already?"

Naerion said nothing in return. Upon reaching the luminous barrier of the gate, he walked straight through and vanished.

Hassarian followed in after him.

* * *

**A/N:** Short chapter I know. but next chapter Naerion will enter the world if the Incubus, and from there I will see if I can maintain the current record of Naerion killing someone in every chapter.


	5. The Lost Village

"This is not what I was expecting," the Death Jester commented.

Naerion said nothing, but inwardly agreed.

After exiting the Webway they had found themselves standing upon lifeless gray soil, they were standing before what must once have been a village, now gutted and burned out. The sky above was blanketed with dark clouds tinged with ruddy red, swirling in a restless cyclone above a black citadel in the distance within the hills beyond the village which could only have been the incubus shrine itself.

The path of the dark warrior ended here, but the final destination remained obvious.

"But I must say, it is an interesting if a little dreary locale. I could see myself writing a few pieces with this as inspiration to the theme," Hassarian mused.

Naerion ignored the morbid fool and walked towards the ruined village. As he entered the shadow of the crumbling arched gate, he noted the sounds of birds cawing carried upon the hollow gust of the ashen wind. Most realms that had fauna and flora pre-fall, had long since been depopulated by the inherent entropy of the post-cataclysm Webway. That there were still birds here struck him as highly unusual, the Incubi had to be maintaining the population somehow; but why?

The village had all the cheer of a graveyard, it likely had once been idyllic; like all eldar Naerion had latent psychic abilities – ones that had been harshly suppressed since his earliest days of childhood – they had atrophied over the centuries of forced neglect, but even so he could feel phantoms of what had been. The village was beautiful once, it's inhabitants pure of soul and hardworking, a sanctuary for faithful hearts.

Along the street they walked upon, ancient buildings flanked them on either side. Hanging from walls and poles, banners faded to the point of being near unintelligible flapped and shifted in the wind like death shrouds. They likely once depicted house crests, and the nature of their craft. It was not so different from the Bazaar districts of the Corespur, where various kabals of standing sold everything from works of art to weapons and armor, as well as more plebeian commodities.

"Quite a different flavor from what one normally experiences in Commorragh, so very untidy," Hassarian remarked dryly as he scanned his surroundings minutely as they walked. "This place appears to bear the stamp of Lady Isha, - if I am not mistaken – this must have been one of her retreats before the Fall. How unfortunate."

"Such becomes of the fruit of a weak god," Naerion scoffed. The vast majority of Commorragh's population held a deeply negative view of the old eldar gods. Virtually all of them had been eradicated by She Who Thirsts, sucked into Her first great droughts following the birth scream as she began gorging on the souls of eldar unfortunate enough to be outside the Webway. The war god Khaela Mensha Khaine had been shattered to pieces, having been too strong for the loathsome Prince of Chaos to devour, and remained the only god that was not held in contempt. Cegorach had also apparently escaped the fate of his fellows, if the Harlequins were to be believed. The Laughing God's survival could be seen as a mixed blessing, on one hand it is claimed he is an enemy of She Who Thirsts, but on the other he simply could not be trusted.

_:Stop!: _Naerion drew his sword and splinter pistol, and rounded about in search for enemies. The voice seemed to come from all directions at once.

_:Make it stop!: _the tortured cry came again. It suddenly dawned on Naerion that the voices were coming from within his head. Was he being possessed by warp spirits now? Had he damned himself by coming here?

"Calm down, Ynneath. I have encountered this before," Hassarian informed him.

"What form of sorcery is this?" Naerion demanded as more voices made themselves heard, crying out like a chorus of the damned. Such sounds were commonplace in Commoragh, another part of the city's ambiance. But this was something different, the cries hinted to a form of suffering that Naerion had never encountered before, let alone put into practice.

"Lost souls, it won't be long until you start seeing them," Hassarian explained, "These are souls of the faithful; eldar who had given their entire existence over to the veneration of a single god, it's a spiritual straightjacket that has prevented them from becoming victims of the Fall. But when their mortal bodies expired, their souls are rendered incapable of joining with their god, and so they walk in limbo. Normally they don't scream."

_:They can't be here! They don't belong here!:_

"This is just a hypothesis, but they may be taking exception to the Incubi presence in this sub-realm," Hassarian added.

"Their opinions don't matter anymore," Naerion stated flatly, continuing down the ruined road.

The monastic ghost village seemed to be filled with the phantasmal cries of adults and children, here and there his sharp eyes could make out faint outlines of eldar, either bent over in pain or playing out mockeries of their old lives, seemingly unaware of the fact that they were long dead. All that now remained of these people were dust and echos.

* * *

(Coven of the Sunken Labyrinth)

He stood on a rocky peak beneath a blackened sky, chilled winds raked across his thin frame as thunderbolts struck the ground below. He stood upon the cusp of his greatest achievement, something he had awaited for many, many centuries.

In front of him blazed a great bonfire, in it's center was a tall stake, upon it hung the flayed body of an over-sized mon'keigh augment warrior. He grinned savagely as he splayed his hands over a book made from human leather and written in blood. It was time now for his ultimate revenge.

"I told you once that I would avenge the insult you payed me Ultramarine," the gaunt eldar hissed, "Now watch as I lay waste to both your chapter, and your degenerate mudball of a planet!"

He raised his hands up, and intoned loudly in a voice that echoed across Macragge, "FINALLY NOW AS NEVER BEFORE! TOTAL DESTRUCTION FROM MOUNTAINS TO SHORE!"

The earth split apart to admit raging curtains of lava and fire, earthquakes of unimaginable scale leveled towns to dust and sent warriors clad in distinctive blue armor marked with white 'U' shaped devices, screaming in circles like little children.

Hydroelectric dams gave way to unleash unstoppable surges of water that swept across the land, ripping trees from the ground, and drowning more blue armored warriors like rats.

The immense form of a giant Gyrinx chased a particular group of augments led by a large marine bearing ornate bulky armor and oversized gauntlets with crude projectile weapons attached to them, the great cat pounced upon them and devoured their vainglorious leader, before slaying the rest.

At last he had won! His vengeance at long last was complete! He-

"Patriarch Gargamel, Zalikith is here to see you," a voice called out, seemingly from beyond this world. Haemonculi patriarch Gargamel growled irritably and tapped a device attached behind his ear. Suddenly the ruined world of Macragge was replaced with the surroundings of his personal sanctum as the virtual reality matrix released it's hold on his senses.

Gargamel looked up at the wrack that had interrupted his 'special alone time' with a gaze that promised a torment most unique that had the altered eldar shaking within an instant.

"Show him in, afterward you may consider yourself reserved for a long discourse upon the subject of door manners," he hissed. A hopeless expression entered the wrack's face that was visible beneath his grilled metal helmet as it turned back towards the door and left. A moment later, Zalikith entered. His taut features morphed into a twisted facsimile of pleasantry.

A orange furred, yellow eyed gyrinx chose that moment to hop upon the iron desk/operating table that Gargamel was seated behind. It looked inquisitively between the two, long tail swishing softly.

"Was your endeavor successful?" Gargamel queried without preamble.

"Indeed, it was most fruitful," Zalikith responded, "Anaeil resisted at first, but she has agreed to the procedure, she remains ignorant to the more... succulent details."

"You have served the coven well this day, I trust you are prepared to embark upon the next phase of the plan?" Gargamel asked, holding his gaze.

"Not quite yet," Zalikith admitted, "There has been a slight setback, our finger in Kirshara Talon was slain by none other than the Archon's fool of a brother, and the package he was to receive fell into the wrong hands; the fail safes worked perfectly fortunately, this mistake will not turn unwanted eyes upon the Undertaking."

"Such delays are intolerable," Gargamel said dangerously, "We have a very specific time line that must be strictly adhered to." He rose up from behind his desk, revealing a lower body that was akin more to that of a spider. Jet black chitinous limbs clattered as the arachnoid haemonculus patriarch advanced upon Zalikith.

"I know well the consequences of failure, lord Gargamel," Zalikith replied evenly. His expression changing slightly to show that he was impressed with the level of detail put into the patriarch's bodily alterations.

"Then I should remind you that the consequences of failing here will be visited tenfold upon you," Gargamel hissed, "Anaeil will not be invested with you forever, and will be compelled to cast you aside as soon as you are no longer needed. Use whatever means you must to remain in her employ and ensure no harm comes to the archon until the due time. How is her progression?"

"She learned of it just ten passes ago, it will take time for it to become more evident," Zalikith replied, "I would assume my protection will be extended to the-"

"Yes, yes. You will protect both, until the third stage. After that she is the only life you need to watch," he answered, cutting the master haemonculus off with a wave of the hand.

A protracted silence followed before Gargamel spoke again, "The shipment will be replaced and given to our contact in the Corespur, if this one is lost I will personally gift you to She Who Thirsts myself."

"That won't happen," Zalikith promised.

"Remove yourself from my presence, I have important matters to attend to," Gargamel commanded.

Bowing deeply, Zalikith retreated from the sanctum to return to the Victrix Spire. Gargamel waited for a moment before skittering back behind his desk and reactivating the VR device. Pursuing yet another revenge fantasy against his most hated enemies, the Ultramarines.

* * *

**A/N: Shortish chapter, I know. If you can get the joke in this chapter, you are awesome.**


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